"What makes you think that?" Madame Merle asked with the amused
smile of a person seated at a game of guesses. "I hope I haven't too
much the droop of the misunderstood."
"No; but you sometimes say things that I think people who have
always been happy wouldn't have found out."
"I haven't always been happy," said Madame Merle, smiling still, but
with a mock gravity, as if she were telling a child a secret. "Such
a wonderful thing!"
But Isabel rose to the irony. "A great many people give me the
impression of never having for a moment felt anything."
"It's very true; there are many more iron pots certainly than
porcelain. But you may depend on it that every one bears some mark;
even the hardest iron pots have a little bruise, a little hole
somewhere. I flatter myself that I'm rather stout, but if I must
tell you the truth I've been shockingly chipped and cracked. I do very
well for service yet, because I've been cleverly mended; and I try
to remain in the cupboard- the quiet, dusky cupboard where there's
an odour of stale spices- as much as I can. But when I've to come
out and into a strong light- then, my dear, I'm a horror!"
I know not whether it was on this occasion or on some other that
when the conversation had taken the turn I have just indicated she
said to Isabel that she would some day a tale unfold.
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